American Idle. Thex Thells.

... as I only blog when I am profusely bored and am in denial about having a drop of american blood in me.

So my kittens, where to begin?

Shall I say this, at the very least, dears? That desire does not now nor shall it ever be a healthy thing. The only healthy aspect of desire may well be the desire to ram ones body onto another persons flailing (usually unclad or otherwise user-friendly) body and perpetrate such action that involves flapping legs at each other and turning he kind of red that would make a baboons heated backside tremble with envy. The subsequent rhythm produced can often create either intense friction or an interesting clapping noise (all sorts of anatomy can applaud all sorts of action, my kittens).

This kind of behavior is usually a fine form of exercise, unless the other person in a great deal smaller than you, you are out in the sunshine and they decide to sleep atop you. In which case you will develop a very abnormal tan-line.

However, aside from the mutual naked twitching of over-active endocrine systems, desire can be immensely inconvenient.

I suppose all of this mental-mush is on my mind because of Blue J. Its all grown very wearisome, I'm sorry to say. Granted, I tell myself all sorts of lovely things (about myself, although I occasionally acknowledge that other people exist somewhere out in the universe.. or so I've heard) to make myself feel better and all that jazz, however I find these mantras of self assurance quite useless when in the company of Blue J.

Well, I knew this was going to happen... even though I did make an exception from my usual taste.

I believe he is Pavlov... showing me, the finest drooling dog to ever face this earth, large pictures of circles and giving me food... and then showing me eclipses and making me paranoid.

If you don't know about that case study than you can either kiss my fine pavlovian buttocks or console your own rump and its inadequate knowledge of psychology.

Come to think of it, Pavlov has not been prancing about the main stage of my noggin (otherwise known as 'first thoughts' or 'prefrontal cortex', if you want to put on glasses, tuck in your shirt and perspire with gusto). Its been more of a Freudian circus, what with thinking about this business of 'Desire' and what not... considering any family I have is a figment of my imagination I do not refer to the Freudian slush portrayed in popular culture, but merely to his obsession with fornication (huzzah for fornix).

Some of my dearest friends have been extrapolating on their experiences to do with desire both TO and AT me... much to my delight. My ears are greedier than my eyes, although neither are vegetarian like my mouth. It seems that hormones are all the rave (and, indeed, rage) and that there is nothing more hip that hips.

Female friends have been recounting the tales of a beautiful male who will soon swoop in from some other corner of the globe and for all I know stand around being blonde, tall, and apparently over endowed in pectoral breadth and rigidity... all thigns which I find mildy revolting as I like my males very slender, very dark-haired and, given my record, very evil.

'Prince Charming' would be an unbelievably corny thing to call this Aryan beast-man man-beast on this blog, because for one thing Oscar Widle did it first, and for another corn is packed with fiber of a rather dangerous and jolly color.

(I should hope my readers have the ability to give forth turds to the world in whatever color they choose, and therefore will not impose anything corny upon their minds and digestive tracks. I am not racist even with feces.)

This male will apparently, according to legend, swoop into our city for a visit with a shellacking of appealing characteristics. Judging by the things I've heard, I'm expecting him to stand upon a rock, gleaming with the kind of sun rays that jesus would begrudge, with a defeated lion or two under a manly foot.
Glinda can play hercules on the piano... maybe she can accompany him.
The Senator (his name) may even find a dragon or two in Hong Kong. Although they will mainly be big gold and tacky, not to mention pungent with fumes of the chinese food in the restaurants they've spent their days presiding in.

If I was a marvelously knight-like male like The Senator I wouldn't waste my time with dragons or lions... I'd be too busy standing around in bits of glorious sunlight laughing in slow motion (which is the proper way for beautiful people to laugh).

Glinda is having a party soon, its almost her birthday and we are born a day apart. If anyone is going to steal my thunder (and I'm a psychotic tenor, I can really REALLY thunder) then it better be good. Fortunately Glinda's parties go down in history (and legend, and religion, eventually passing into mythology where they sit around with Zeus and play strip-poker).
I'm more exited for her birthday bash, I say bash as I will hit anyone who inhibits it, than becoming a year further away from being squirted out of a pouch of amniotic fluid and other anonymous and probably self-satisfied goo.

Okay my kittens, I really must fly. I've got to get though a little more Descartes before I hit the hay/smack the sack/catch some Zzzs/catnap... or, you know, 'sleep'.

Turrah.

Jhonnie Cat.